Insert Work Wanted ad here

Yesterday I went to the local job fair.

I really don’t know what I was expecting. I’d called for details and the gal I talked to made it sound like an organized, streamlined process. Resume tweaking, printing, and then pick the businesses you’re interested in and visit them.

I didn’t need resume help, I have a resume that I very much like.

It was very lucky for this girl that I didn’t, because I pulled up in the parking lot and….well, there was this huge bus that said it was an “online lab” and it kind of felt like the windowless van that follows the ice cream truck around.

So I bypassed the molester van and went on in.

First of all, I had on heels and I had to walk down this huge ass flight of stairs, the last five of which were on wheels and it kind of felt like I was tightrope walking. On ice. Over fire.

Once I made it down and I was amongst the blue curtains, I was a little confused.

All the publicity had said to dress as though you were going to an interview. I was surrounded by people in John Deere hats and flip flops with camo shirts. Classy.

The booths were varied. Kind of.

Army and factory and Avon and Mary Kay.

And the worst thing I think was that every booth I might have been interested in simply directed you to their website to search for open positions. Like I couldn’t have stayed home and done that from my chair with Netflix.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Applause when I entered. Commentary on my twisty hairstyle. Compliments on my lovely tree picture on my resume. Something.

Instead, I was in and out in about twenty minutes.

To be fair (job fair), there were a few interesting places there. I spoke with one fellow who worked with the state rehab and he was full of possibilities for me…after I finish my Bachelor’s. I talked to one lady who is my friend on LinkedIn, and she was really helpful and optimistic.

So it wasn’t a total bust, but it wasn’t what I expected. Which I guess nothing ever is. Maybe it did some good. We’ll see.

Apropos of nothing, here’s the sweetest picture ever.

From a Friday drive

Happy Saturday.

Last night, in the name of getting out of the house since I don’t do that very much, we went to pick up some pizza and drive around town.

There were people rehearsal dinnering, walking, taking pictures. One chick was walking a little chihuahua with a purple sweater on.

There was also one lady who was standing under a tree staring up into the branches. Just staring. Unless she lost her bird I’m not sure what the deal was, but hey, I don’t judge. Maybe she loves the tree.

We came home and ate our pizza, which was freaking delicious.

Then I went to bed. Nine o’clock on a Friday night and I went to bed. We’re crazy around these parts. CRAZY.

I was thinking last night during the drive about how much I miss having a job.

Josh was telling all these stories about work and his days, and I realized it’s this whole separate life he has. People and work and places to go. I wouldn’t call how I feel jealous, but I am a little bit wistful.

I remember being good at something. Having definite purpose during a given day. Talking to adults.

But then I think about how much I’d miss Lucy. How much I’d miss peekaboo and cheese sticks.

So I guess you could say I’m torn.

It’s not like it’s really even a choice right now. No one is exactly breaking down the door for my phone answering expertise and sarcastic wit at the moment. But maybe one day I’ll have an opportunity, and who am I kidding – we all know I’ll take it. And then I’ll whine about missing being at home.

Because that’s what I do.

We’ll always have the Sacristy

To tell the honest truth (as opposed to the other kind), I’m at a bit of a loss.
I won’t stay that way for long, because there are so many thoughts in my head. In my heart.

When I first met you, I was sure that you’d end up being someone else to get on my nerves because let’s face it, pretty much everyone does.

But I learned (quickly, like the next day when you breezed through and yelled, “I gotta go on a liquor run before communion on Sunday, anybody running short? Jesus is payin’!” ) that you were not to be anything that I would have expected.

You came in every Monday to sign the checks and get the scoop. Sometimes you’d stay for hours because we’d get caught up in telling stories and chatting about pretty much any topic we could think of.

You know the line from Steel Magnolias, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, come sit by me?”

That was you. To the bone. And it brightened my day so many times.

Every image I have of the true Southern lady I have because of you. You carried handkerchiefs, draped your hairdo with a brassy scarf, wore sunglasses as big as my head. Your big luxury car. Bridge and beauty parlor on Fridays. Dirty jokes in the church office, always prefaced with, “Now Emily don’t you tell anybody I said this. I’ll deny it.”

I told you so many things. Secrets. Quandaries. Decisions I had to make.

You always had advice.

You told me about lingerie modeling when you were young, because you were unapologetically “a total babe, Emily!”

When I had to leave, we both cried. You were the hardest part of leaving.

I used to call you on the weekends, during the long child-custody swap drives. You kept me in the know and never failed to tell me how much you wanted us to come home.

I should have kept in touch more. I should have written cards and notes.

The last time I saw you I asked about the office and everything I’d left.

“It’s working, I guess…but…it’s not the same. It’s not the same at all.”

I hope one day I can be as wonderful as you. You were a lady, a love, and one of my dearest friends.

It won’t be the same, Miss Lynn. Not the same at all.

Gainfully or leechfully

I’ve been looking for a job.

I haven’t said that out loud in wow, a long time, but there it is.

I just really don’t think I have what it takes to be a stay at home mom, wife and whatever else. You guys already know I have a habit of staying in my pajamas all day, but lately I’m realizing that it’s been so long since I’ve actually put on makeup that maybe perhaps I might’ve forgotten how. Like Wednesday – I was going to the school to get the kids and hopefully catch Max’s awards ceremony (which I didn’t, because they started at 8:30 instead of 9:30 like I thought, which meant that instead of calm clapping and proudness I spent almost an hour walking muggy elementary school hallways that always seem sticky, trying to locate my children in end of school hoopla), and in getting out the neglected makeup bag I was totally intimidated. It was like being thirteen. If I’d had time to get into eyeliner and brow pencils and such I probably could have managed to leave the house looking hungover, bruised, and old instead of just tired.

There’s always next time.

So, job. I’ve been looking. I probably don’t have to elaborate for anyone out there with a pulse and a credit score, but just in case you’ve missed how things are…

Guys, it sucks trying find a job.

I mean seriously, even if I had degrees and a love of human fluids and my CDLs, I think I’d still be out of luck. I haven’t worked in over a year, and I haven’t worked locally in…almost two? Is that RIGHT? Ugh.

But y’all I am not even playing – I am a stellar employee. I really am. I even friend my bosses on Facebook. You would think that I’d have no problem finding some place to slip in and make my own – except how do you convey that? Without sounding like everyone else, I mean. Because of course everyone will say that to get a job. People will say anything to get a job.

WANTED: Nancy Drew expert who has never broken a bone, farts glitter and eats sunshine and ponies, for secretarial and surgical duties. Salary DOE.

I’M YOUR GIIIIIIRL!

Except of course it can’t be like that. There are all sorts of hoops to jump through and then what if the job ends up not even being worth paying someone six figures to manhandle my three kids (three kids, my sweet rubbery trouty mouth, three kids!)?

I mean really. I want to work. I enjoy working. I’m good at it and I can learn almost anything very quickly. But it’s like dating – how do they know I’m the one? Do I say, “Hey, if you want to know me, read my blog, I ramble and sometimes I’m foul and if you look at my Twitter feed on the side can you please ignore that one tweet about feeling bad about bleeding on my cute maxi pads?”

I’m thinking maybe no.

But you know what, this is me. It in no way means I’m unfit to work, and if it were going to offend a potential employer I probably wouldn’t really enjoy working with them anyway, so why not head it off at the pass?

I’m not an idiot. I know boundaries. I can veil things and situations that don’t want to be colorfully exploited via the Internet courtesy of yours truly.

It just seems like a lot to ask. And maybe it is.

Typing this made me hungry

I realize a lot of my thoughts lately have been focused on jobly things, but…well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about.

Choosing a job is a huge thing.

At least for me, my job always becomes a huge player in the way I live my life. Maybe it shouldn’t, maybe I get too involved.

But how could it not?

I know jobs are hard to come by in today’s economy. I know that sometimes you have to do what you have to do (duh. I hate phrases like that. Of course you have to do what you have to do. It’s needlessly repetitive. Anyway).

To phrase it differently, I know that sometimes you have to take your place in an environment that you wouldn’t otherwise choose.

But what if you have a choice?

My husband goes to work every day at a job he hates so that we can buy diapers. Formula. Clothes. Food. You know, things that matter.

On the weekends (and sometimes during the week), he comes alive. He comes home from Kroger (after shopping, not working), puts on pajama pants, throws a towel over his shoulder and quite frankly dirties more dishes than I would previously have believed is possible. He creates things in the kitchen – that’s what he loves. Sometimes the product is wonderful (lemon tarts, anyone?), sometimes it’s surprising (those New Year spring rolls were awesome, and I expected to hate them), and sometimes it’s just not my cup of tea (I admit it here and now, those catfish tacos were not my favorite. It’s not you, it’s me).

I hate that he can’t do what he loves for a living. Given the choice, I’d work at whatever I had to and I’d let him do whatever it took to achieve his dream. Truth be told, that’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t have that choice yet.

This is what I love. And I can always do this. But until someone falls into my lap with a book tour and bouquets of hundred dollar bills, I can do whatever it takes to make the choices that give him the chance to do what he loves. That’s a relationship, right? That’s what love is.

Small town’s finest.

Mississippi. Illustrated.

An older couple walked into the bookstore, and I asked nicely if I could help them. He said that he’d ordered a book, it had come in, he wanted to pick it up. I found the book and handed it to him while punching in the numbers. As I reached for a bag, he flipped the book over to read the back.

I noticed the title…”SomethingIdon’tremember End Time Delusion”….about the time that he piped up and said toward his wife, “They got it wrong too, Mama. I thought for sure he had it right.”

He went on like this for a bit, then turned toward me.

Oh please, not me. Not me. I do not want to have the THE END IS NEAR conversation with this man.

“Do you know what I’m talking about?”

Um, of course not. You’re talking? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you 2 feet from my face.

I shook my head, then politely handed him his change and prayed to Dear God in Heaven above that he would shut up and move on.

“See here where it says, ‘Will there be a Rapture? Will there be seven years of tribulation?’ THAT’S all from nowhere. Some Pentecostal WOMAN preacher made that up in 1817. I Thessalonians tells us what the REAL church believed, and this is all wrong.”

Well, dearie me and bless my soul. Did you say a WOMAN preacher? How could anyone have taken that seriously? She must’ve been hard to hear, preaching while she wiped behinds and beat rugs and churned butter. And why were they listening anyway, when JESUS’ BEST FRIEND HIMSELF wasn’t born until THIS century and HERE HE IS IN MY BOOKSTORE. I must be doing something right.

Before he left, I fought the urge to ask him for St. Peter’s phone number. No, really, I did. I controlled myself. But BOY, it was hard.

True and no lie.

“[Name of business], can I help you?”

“Yeah, do y’all got Chrissmas ornaments with people on ‘em?”

“Excuse me?”

People on ‘em.”

“Uh, I think maybe we have some with Jesus on them, but I’ll have to check.”

“Issee black or white?”

“Who?”

Jesus.”

“He’s, uhm, Jewish.”

Click.